Chapter Text
Lucerys Velaryon is born in the midst of the worst storm Dragonstone has ever witnessed. It starts slowly enough, a low rumble warning the smallfolk to stay inside for the day. Gradually, it begins to spread, dark clouds heavy with rain gathering as the water around Dragonstone becomes choppy. The shipmasters barely have time to properly stow their ships away, tucked away from the rough waters.
Meanwhile, Rhaenyra finds herself pacing, running her hand over her swollen belly. She’s nervous, a feeling that’s become part of the norm for her. Pregnancy has always frightened her, considering what happened to her own mother. Jacaerys, her darling first born, had been relatively easy despite her fear and misgivings.
She had barely gotten sick, only suffering from swollen feet and a hunger that refused to abate no matter what she ate. She remembers, fondly now that it is behind her, the way she’d had to give birth to Jace right before the Iron Throne, the babe refusing to wait until she could return to her rooms.
Now though, it appears her second born is attempting to out do their brother’s impatience. Rhaenyra continues to pace, trying to soothe her child, pleading with them in her native language.
“Please my love, it is too early. I promise once you are ready I will show you the world,” she coos, urging her child to wait for another moon, when they were actually due instead of on this dreary, fearful day.
However, it seems that her child isn’t interested in waiting. All she gets for her troubles is the distinct feeling of wetness between her thighs and on her feet, and a splash that lets her know her child is coming a moon early.
Fear has her heart racing and she turns her head, calling for her midwives just as the first strike of lightning cuts across the sky, the terrible clap of thunder following shortly after, nearly drowning out her own cries.
All throughout Rhaenyra’s labors, the storm rages and rages. The sea froths, crashing against Dragonstone as the wind whips and screams tearing through anything foolish enough to be in its path. Lightning cracks across the sky, splitting through the dark clouds that have finally unleashed their burden, rain falling in a loud uproar, quickly flooding the villages surrounding Dragonstone.
The rain falls so hard it almost sounds like soldiers were marching by. Above it all, the thunder roars near constantly, the sound akin to a battle cry. The smallfolk can only wonder what war rages in the skies amongst the gods.
“Push, your highness,” one of the midwives urges, doing her best to ignore the way the princess bares her teeth in threat.
“I am pushing, you cunt!” The princess hisses in High Valyrian, purple eyes wide and wild, madness swirling in their depths before she tips her head back, crying out as another contraction hits and she forces herself to push again.
To her left is her husband, the poor man doing his best to soothe her as he holds one of her hands, his other rubbing gently at her shoulder. To her right is Ser Harwin, his hand in hers as he does his best to not show that the princess might actually have broken his hand with the fierce grip she has on it.
Rhaenyra remembers her first pregnancy, remembers the effort she put in to push, push, push until her darling boy greeted the world with a loud cry. She remembers the relief, the pure rush of happiness as she heard it. She knows she’ll never forget it.
Which is why her heart fills with nothing but dread when she hears nothing at all. Not even the storm outside, the thunder having waned after her last push. Rhaenyra pants, chest heaving as tears already rush to her eyes because, because she can’t hear anything. Her child is not crying, her child is- is-
“No,” Rhaenyra moans, already fearing the worst, “please, please tell me,” she begs, unsure of what she’s even asking for. Laenor squeezes her hand tightly as Ser Harwin, ever the brave soldier, turns to see what Rhaenyra cannot.
“He lives,” a midwife says, loud enough that Rhaenyra can hear, “he lives, he is just a little shy,” she soothes.
“He,” Rhaenyra says, and then nothing more as she tries to look, to see, to make sure that her son lives, that they aren’t lying to her. Before she can sit up fully, Ser Harwin and Laenor take over, gently moving her so she has the headboard to her back, feather filled pillows keeping her comfortable. Rhaenyra barely even notices them, eyes searching for her son, for her boy.
Thankfully, she doesn’t have to look far. One of the midwives, the one that told her her son lived, is already ready for her with a bundle in her arms. Rhaenyra meets her halfway, quickly taking her son into her arms, only slightly reassured by the weight, light as it was. Despite her fears, she is gentle as she pushes the blanket out of the way, going still only when the baby’s face is uncovered.
Her son, her darling boy, is beautiful. His face is small and round, and she marvels at his button nose, smiles at the head full of brown hair he already has, just like his older brother. She knows for a fact that herself, her half-siblings, and her uncle and father had been born with wisps of white hair at best, tufts at worse and yet this was her second child born with a head full of hair. It’s soft to the touch, honestly a little damp, and Rhaenyra can’t help but be endlessly endeared.
Slowly, she runs her fingers down her son’s body, counting his small little fingers one by one, soothed by the way he tries to grab her, but not satisfied yet. She has to shift a bit to count his toes but she is a woman on a mission and will not be stopped. His little toes curl too, just like his fingers had and Rhaenyra feels her eyes well with tears.
Finally, she comes back up to his face and inhales so sharply that everyone still in the room stops moving. Rhaenyra doesn’t notice, too busy taking in her son’s eyes. She had honestly been expecting brown. Her darling Jacaerys had brown eyes so it stood to reason that this son would have them too. However, it seems that her darling second born was determined to prove her wrong.
Blue eyes, blue so bright they nearly glow, stare straight at her, unblinking. Rhaenyra stares back, breathless as her mother’s eyes watch her. Her son’s eyes are as light as her mother’s, as if the gods themselves had taken pieces of the sky and stored them in her son. As if her late mother had blessed her son, approving of her grandson. With a sniff that startles Laenor, Rhaenyra begins to cry.
They can only watch helplessly as the Crown Princess holds on tightly to her second son and cries and cries, but they are not tears of sadness, they realize as Rhaenyra seems to laugh a little in between her sobs, but tears of happiness. During this time, her darling second son, still unnamed, merely blinks, brows furrowing as he’s jostled. He otherwise remains silent.
Rhaenyra settles quickly enough, her cries lessen to sniffles as she uses her free hand to wipe at her eyes. Laenor is lying against her side and she belatedly realizes that he has passed out. At some point, the midwives had handled the after birth, it coming out much easier than her son, and she can only assume that Laenor had seen it. With a smile, Rhaenyra looks down at her son who is still watching her, and she can only hope he is looking at her with the same wonder and love that she watches him with.
“Your father has a weak stomach, Lucerys,” she tells him, and watches the way his eyes widen, pupils blown wide as he hears his mother’s voice for the first time, “you must forgive him.”
“Lucerys?” Ser Harwin asks, glancing down at the small babe who has yet to look away from Rhaenyra, not even once.
“Yes,” Rhaenyra murmurs softly, staring just as much at her son as Lucerys stares at her, “Lucerys Stormborn Velaryon, heir to Driftmark.”
Perched on the balcony, witness to the birth of the new prince, a raven tilts its head. It watches for a bit longer as the family settles, the room clearing as the princess and her prince bond as mother and son while Ser Harwin watches and Laenor sleeps. Without a sound, the raven turns and flies off, unburdened, as the storm clears and sweeps away as if nothing ever happened. The sun is already peeking out of the clouds, smug in its victory.
Rhaenyra refuses to let Lucerys out of her sight for a while, let alone put him down. Jacaerys had been born a little early sure, but nowhere near an entire moon before it was time. So, she’s a bit nervous that her son will end up like Baelon, slipping away mere hours after his birth.
However, it’s been over a fortnight and her son still lives, still breathes, and despite her concerns, makes little grunts whenever he desires her attention instead of crying.
Rhaenyra spends that fortnight talking to her son, always in High Valyrian, just like she had done with Jace. She is determined for all of her children’s first language to be the one of their people. Surely the maesters can teach them Common easily enough.
High Valyrian though, in Rhaenyra’s opinion, should be taught by the family, a language designed to be a first language instead of something to be studied in books in adulthood. It is why her half-siblings struggle now, taught High Valyrian as an afterthought, just enough to command a dragon, but not enough to talk comfortably amongst themselves.
Her children will not be like that, she will not allow it.
So, Rhaenyra talks and Lucerys listens. He is a quiet child, her Lucerys, content to be held and seemingly listening to everything she says. She tells him the stories she knows of Old Valyria and watches the way his eyes track her, the way his head turns her way when she speaks. He seems utterly fascinated by her and Rhaenyra, in turn, is fascinated by him.
Jacaerys is also just as interested in his brother. Of course he was only nearing his second name day when Lucerys was born and so there isn’t much he can do to contribute but he is more than happy to stay by his mother’s side as she hoards her sons in her rooms like the dragon she is, hyper aware of how small and fragile her little hatchlings are.
She only relaxes when Lucerys’ egg hatches. She had gotten the egg herself, just a day after Lucerys had been born, when she’d introduced her son to Syrax. Her darling dragon had sniffed at her son, something akin to amusement in her eyes when Lucerys stared up at her with wide, wide eyes. He didn’t cry, her brave boy, and instead tried to reach for her snout.
“This is my son, Syrax,” Rhaenyra says as the dragon allows the small, small hand to touch her.
“His name is Lucerys, Lucerys Velaryon. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our children grew up together?”
She watches as Syrax huffs again, moving her head higher to bump her nose against Rhaenyra’s forehead. Rhaenyra knows that Syrax had laid a clutch recently, her first and only so far. She had already gifted one of Syrax’s eggs to her darling Jace, which had already hatched into the beautiful Vermax.
Her other eggs are tucked away safe and warm, but Rhaenyra feels better asking her dragon first before taking one. She knows that Syrax will agree, knows her dragon feels the same love for her eggs that Rhaenyra feels for her children, so it only makes sense for their hatchlings to grow together.
With her dragons' permission, she had made the journey to where all the eggs on Dragonstone resided, guarded carefully in the off chance Cannibal decided he wanted easy prey. It had been easy enough to choose a beautiful pearlescent egg, one that shimmered at every angle with streaks of gold. A pearl for her pearl, she’d decided, and that had been that.
Lucerys’ egg had hatched shortly after and the dragon inside had been just as beautiful as the shell it had forced itself out of. The tiniest little thing, but proud in the way it had forced itself out and tucked itself against her son who had been dozing in his cradle. Rhaenyra had watched, delighted, as the dragon sought her son’s warmth and the name came to her easily enough: Arrax.
Knowing that her darling boy was nearing two moons and already had a dragon certainly soothed her worries and Rhaenyra allowed the nurse maid to watch her son when she was away, returning to her duties as Crown Princess.